Oi, Oi, Vater
by Endword
Summary: Drabbles about Germania being a father and Prussia's childhood.
1. Princess

The boy is so loud it's like his body wasn't made to handle giggles. They bounce out of him uncontrolled and wild, rousing Germania from his sleep.

He's not surprised the child is playing with his hair _again_. It's something that's off limits even to his youngest. He lifts his head, ready to swat and scold the offender but he's suddenly swayed against it. The sun is sinking down the sky and the way the moving light seems to slink into the room uninvited soothes the sternness out of Germania's brow. He relaxes; pretending to be asleep just this once. There's more harm in spoiling the fun than spoiling the child, he decides.

"Hey, Hey, Bruder!" The boy's voice is an extension of his laugh. It carries strong and dominates the room, clinging to the air as if it's always been there. Unlike his youngest, the boy will never have a voice to sing, a pity, Rome would call it, but Germania is proud anyway when he's not annoyed. However grating, the child has the feel of someone Germania knows will be able to lead with success. The potential is there in the confidence of his undeveloped voice.

There's a few rough tugs on his scalp, and with a frustrated exhale of breath, Germania cracks an eye open and turns his head slightly to the offender. To his surprise, the boy has his back to him; Germania's borrowed blond hair is cascading down over the child's own white, wavy locks.

"Ja?"

"Kesesese! Awesome right? Bruder, I'm a woman now, so call me princess!" It takes all of Germania's self restraint not to break into a smile.


	2. Dawn

There would be times, in privacy of course, where he would have the child laid out on his stomach, fast asleep right by him. They lay together, his son's little head nestled neatly under his chin, so he could listen to the child's soft breathing matching his perfectly, and feel his strong heart strumming to the same beat of his own.

He never felt as large and clumsy as he did with his child near him. Never felt as useless or as scared with the bundle of warm young life clinging to him. It was as if the boy's smallness was playing some subtle magic on his own perception, making Germania tremble with awareness of his own strength. It made his throat dry with knowledge of the vulnerability of the soft toddler resting on his rising chest, and his stomach tight with responsibility to keep the boy safe.

It was here, in the empty corner of his home against the wall, surrounded by nothing but earth stained wood on top of a bed of fragrant hay that Germania felt safest. For once left alone and abandoned by the world with no visitors and no intruders besides rays of quiet sunlight filtering in gently through slight gaps of brick and wood, as if seeking acquiescence of the morning.

Here, with mild awe and curiosity, safe from the eyes of others, Germania would marvel at the child in his arms for hours. As the skies teased dawn into morning and the last stars slipped out of view, He would run his calloused hand through the boy's wispy lambwool hair and count his perfect pale fingers again and again.


	3. Spar

"When are you going to stop crying?" The question struggled and was drowned out, overwhelmed by the volume of Gilbert's hiccupping sobs. The boy was sprawled out on the floor, eyes shut with blood pouring from a deep cut on his forehead, sword abandoned a short distance away.

Germania coughed, clearing his throat in an attempt to get the child's attention, he sheathed his sword and crouched down, leaning over his son to stare him straight in the face.

"...I said," He paused for emphasis, cold emerald eyes staring, a threat hinting in his tone though his voice never rose from a quiet growl. "When are you going to stop?"

He felt a wave of satisfaction to see the boy flinch, and watched unmoved as Gilbert rolled to his stomach, intimidated and desperate to hide away from his father's glare.

"I'm-I'm not, the cool me's-" The reply came whined and shaky, punctuated by spastic sobs and sniffles that made the boy burst into fresh tears.

"Crying," Germania finished for him, "After you've been told to stop."

"I'M NOT!" Was the instant, shrieked reply, delivered as Gilbert whirled around and kicked his father for all his worth. The older man barely registered the blow; patiently, he raised his eyebrows at his son, noting the boy's crumpled features, reading the knotted crease on his brow and his curled lips, teeth bared with outrage, frustration and pain.

"Are too," Germania continued evenly, removing his gloves and slipping them back into his belt. "Wipe your face of those tears. Now."

Gilbert complied still sniffling, his sleeve staining with blood as he swiped at his eyes. His head pounded with pain, the wound on his forehead burned and stung at the slightest movement. He took a breath and found his cheeks burning with shame as another hiccuping sob overtook his inhale, turning into a whine as he breathed out.

"_Vaaaaaaaaaatiiiiii,_" The word came stretched out, floating in the cold air waiting for reply, before being immediately swallowed by silence. His father remained unresponsive, inwardly sighing at how easily tears trailed down the boy's cheeks. Germania preferred his smile.

He watched as the child struggled to compose himself enough to continue, experience having taught the boy that his father would not accept anything that came attached with too many tears. It seemed like a downhill battle, and as Gilbert's resolve finally collapsed and the little boy dissolved into blubbering wails, Germania lowered himself down and sat quietly by him, his eyes trained on sky, watching the slow movement of clouds and the way they played with light.

He waited and said nothing, until Gilbert had exhausted himself further, until his wails and angry kicks dissipated into occasional whimpers and shuffles closer, as the need to cry was replaced with the urgent need for comfort. There were a few angry huffs, then with a rough shove at his arm, Germania found his peace invaded by a lapful of sniveling little boy. He stiffened slightly despite himself, still unused to the child's more intimate and needy behavior, and faltered as his son settled in his lap, shifting before leaning against his father.

Germania grunted, awkwardly frozen and unsure what to do with his arms for a moment. His dilemma was solved by the boy's small hands suddenly reeling them in, grip tight and nails digging mercilessly into Germania's flesh as Gilbert dragged his father's arms to wrap and ultimately rest around his waist. Germania winced slightly at the treatment, the child was small still, no bigger than a child of four years of age, but impossibly strong at times, especially when angered.

He sighed again, peering down at Gilbert. The boy ignored him; from this angle, Germania could only see the round, still babyish swell of the child's tear stained, flushed cheeks with those delicate, long eye lashes, the bump of his nose, and pouting lips.

"... Done?" He asked, nudging Gilbert and being treated to a furious swat before receiving a sullen nod after a lengthy pause.

"Then apologize," He prompted, lifting his son to his feet and turning him around to face him. Gilbert glared fearlessly at him, lips clamped tight.

" ..._Boy._" Germania returned the look, jaws taut with rising anger and dwindling patience. He had allowed the boy enough leniency. They were still in the sparring area, still weighed down with heavy armor and weapons. The boy knew he was to be a soldier and a student here, never a child and never a son.

Gilbert scowled, his face heating with sudden embarrassment.

"...Sorry," He grumbled, not meaning it. Germania nodded, ignoring the sulky, resentful tone in the child's voice.

"Don't you ever repeat this," He warned, squeezing Gilbert's hands with enough strength to make him squirm, "Should you ever_ dare _throw your sword down in a fit of rage whilst sparring with me again, I will _purposely _return home bloodied, and the father of one child less."

He paused, letting the words sink into his son's mind. Gilbert blanched, his eyes suddenly fearful.

"Understand?" Silence. Germania tightened his grip on the small hands, instantly making the boy squeal.

"AH-! OW! I got it! OWW! V-Vater! I UNDERSTAND!" Gasping, Gilbert struggled to pry his fingers away from his father's hold. The crushing pressure lasted a few moments more, until tears threatened in his eyes. Germania watched him carefully, and as soon as he judged the boy to have had enough, finally released him, allowing Gilbert to snatch his throbbing fingers away.

"Good, now get your sword and get back here," The boy hurried off at the order, whimpering softly at the further damage his father had dealt him, his hands sure to be sore in the morning. He shuffled over to his sword and picked it up from the ground, returning to his father right away.

Taking the sword, Germania checked the blade quickly for chips in the metal. Finding none, he sheathed the blade and tucked it away. As he did so, his lap was once again filled by Gilbert. The boy was still sniffling, gingerly probing the cut on his head. During their spar, Gilbert had stupidly gotten distracted by some nonsense or another that hand angered him, and had thrown his sword aside, just at the very moment Germania had swung his.

Seeing the blood pour from an accidental wound he had given his child was a sight the elder nation had found himself unprepared for. At the sight of the boy's blood covered face, his heart had shriveled up and frozen completely. He found himself unable to breathe at that moment, and stood paralyzed where he was, until the child's wails had snapped him back to reality.

It was a stupid accident, one easily avoided and unreasonably . It wasn't that he was unaccustomed to his children being injured, nope, Germania was a man with more children than he could keep an eye on. Injuries were as common place as lice were. It also wasn't that Germania was a father who wouldn't injure his own children either; that was something he did regularly. The difference was intention. When he chose to hurt his children, whether through spankings or slight burns and cuts, he did so as discipline; mild, short-lived pain to teach. Having a child injured from carelessness and slowness on his part was a whole other story. One that could've easily ended badly.

"Don't touch that, child," Germania sighed, pulling the boy's hands away from the wound. The bleeding had stopped finally, leaving a dark, quickly scabbing lump on the boy's flesh.

"It needs to be cleaned, so hands off. Does it itch?" He asked, receiving a nod in reply. Germania tore strips from his cape and wrapped it around a hand, before wetting the fabric with water from his pouch. He began to scrub at dried blood on the Gilbert's face, taking note of the still dripping snot and tears coming from his son . Germania suppressed a groan; children were so... So stupid.

"Crying _still_?" He couldn't keep the exasperation from his voice. Gilbert jumped at the accusation, mouth open with outrage.

"I'M N-" Germania didn't bother to let him finish. Smothering the boy suddenly with the end of the child's cape, he said only one thing.

"Blow."

Silence; Gilbert sat there, face covered, unmoving. Germania stared at him for a moment, not ready to believe what he was seeing. He nudged the child's face, gently pressing the boy's nostrils.

"...Blow," he prompted and again received no response. An awkward moment followed, Gilbert reddened. Germania didn't bother asking; it was all he needed to know that the child still hadn't mastered the art of clearing his own airways and wasn't willing to fumble again in front of his father. Wordlessly, he did the work for the boy, ad wiped the tears from his face.

"...I'll return your sword when you can do this by yourself, child." Ignoring the muffled protests, he tossed down Gilbert's cape and returned to cleaning the boy's wounds with the damp cloth, feeling slightly more worthless as a father. Hand the boy a sword and his son could possibly take down a grown man, but hand him a cloth to wipe his face and the child wouldn't have a clue.

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, exhaustion making itself home within him. Germania could feel the age crawling into his bones, his strength draining more every day. He sighed, wondering passively if he would see himself wither like Rome had. If he too would fear death so much, he would trail his palms on the blade of a sword, and ask quietly to be helped at the end, whenever it arrived.

But he wasn't at that point yet. He was far from it still; his body young and his children still small and needy. He gazed down at Gilbert, the child now struggling with sleep, his head swaying and eyes heavy, and thought of him, and all the others. How still, they needed him and how soon, they wouldn't.

Standing, Germania lifted the tired boy into his arms. He worried most about him; the boy was a quick learner, talented and brilliant when he wanted to be, but at times utterly incapable of caring for himself. The child grew faster than his weaker brother, and yet matured slower, remaining dependent on the smaller boy to comfort him when needed.

That was why Germania's heart froze when he became aware of his fading life, and the reason why he refused to think about it. He would last as long as he had to; until he could dream peacefully of his children's future, of them as grown adults. Until he had smoothed away the rougher edges to the boy in his arms. Until someone else came to care for this child. Until he had worked himself past the capabilities of his aging body.

Until he had nothing more to give.


End file.
